Granddaddy’s Mistake

All of my life I have been fascinated with water. One of my favorite poems is Tennyson’s “ The Brook”.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

So every time I am on the water’s edge, I can’t keep my hands out of it. This time my interest had an unexpected outcome.

We were visiting Rick and Sara with their three children, Lena, Ana, and Rick II, at their home in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. A few miles southwest of their home, the Misery River flows into Lake Superior. The river is really more of a creek, flowing slightly more than ten miles into a low lying swampy area before entering the Lake. I’m not sure where the river gets its name, but I suspect that the prevalent mosquitoes and black flies had something to do with it. One has to be generous with mosquito repellent. The surf of Lake Superior controls the mouth of the river, molding sand barriers along the shore that change the outlet depending on the direction of the latest storm. On this particular day we were enjoying the beach, looking for pebbles, watching the seagulls, and resting on the sand. The river was backed up in a quiet pool behind a sand bar, with barely a trickle seeping across the top of the bar. We strolled along the beach, watched some riders bring their horses down the shore, and just generally had a quiet relaxing time. Sara spread a blanket on the other side of the river’s trickle and sat down, where Lena joined her. After awhile I got the idea of making a little canal for the trickle so that it wouldn’t spread so wide, and would be a simple step across. So Ricky, Ana and I scooped a little ditch about ten inches wide and two or three inches deep from the river water down to the lake. Lena came over to help. We got it finished and watched with satisfaction as a little stream now flowed from pond to lake.

But I had reckoned without the hydrodynamics of water and wave molded sand. We soon noticed that the stream was flowing a little faster and a little deeper. After about a half hour we began to get concerned. Now the stream was about a foot deep and four feet wide. You see, the water in the river was backed up about a quarter of a mile, and as the canal deepened, tons of water pressure began bearing on the flow. We called to Sara to suggest that she come back across before it got any deeper. By the time she gathered up the blanket, the stream was ten feet wide and two feet deep. Even as we watched, the stream deepened, with sand falling in from the edges and being rapidly carried away. We put a driftwood log in the water, hoping that Sara could cross on it but it quickly washed downstream. We tried another, but when she got partly across, one foot slipped into the water. I caught her hand and helped her out, but not before she got soaked over her knees.

About this time the riders came back with their horses. The current was now swift enough that they decided to cross a little upstream, where the bottom was the original, and now significantly more shallow. They crossed without a problem. We finally left for the day. The water was drained down quite a bit, but still flowing strongly.

I haven’t been back to the Misery River to see what changes have occurred, but I have no doubt that Lake Superior rearranged things to suit the vagaries of wind and water. There probably isn’t a sign of our runaway canal, but Ricky will probably remember what he labeled “Granddaddy’s Mistake” for the rest of his life

Paul B. Campbell

12/27/2000